


Heat

by looker



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:04:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7550683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looker/pseuds/looker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They both watch him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat

Atobe sits at the top of the bleachers. Jirou lay beside him, outstretched on the metal, his head resting gently against Atobe’s thigh. Down on the courts, Tezuka plays against Oshitari.

The sun beat down onto them, thick and scorching. Kabaji, usually holding an umbrella or using his broad shoulders to shade Atobe, was down on the courts as well, set to match against Kaidoh, warming up lamely by waving his arms aimlessly. Atobe would yell for him to pick up the pace, the intensity, but his gaze was focused on the match. On _him._

Tezuka. But not at full potential. Playing Oshitari like he’s played him a thousand times before, this same match, returning balls before Oshitari can even think of what serve to use. It’s incredible, and Oshitari is visibly frustrated on the court, but boring. Atobe feels himself frowning despite himself. Jirou rustles beside him, soft hair just tickling where it hits leg that his shorts do not cover. Atobe nonchalantly reaches down and touches the boy’s head, but his gaze never once falters. It can’t. Not with Tezuka. He always changes, always evolves. Right before him, Tezuka is already not the same person he was two hours ago, when Seigaku arrived unceremoniously for their practice matches. It’s annoying, and exhilarating, and Atobe can’t help the thrill he feels when Tezuka hits a perfect serve, or returns one of Oshitari’s counters without faltering or misstepping once. Atobe’s eyes narrow when Tezuka hits the winning shot, and Oshitari’s chest heaves and falls and he glares across the court, across the net, at _him_.

Tezuka hasn’t broken a sweat.

“He’s great, isn’t he?”

Atobe startles, deaf to the sound of sharp metallic footsteps on the bleachers approaching him. Fuji stands over him, smiling that smile that Atobe sees all the time, covering him and Jirou in a shadow. Jirou stirs from sleep.

“I suppose he’s alright,” Atobe says, sitting up straighter in the presence of Fuji Shusuke, Seigaku’s master of counters when his own counter player just lost on the court below. It’s no time to be slouching. “But of course, I could beat him. He’s only playing at fifty percent, isn’t he?”

“Less,” Fuji says, coy and intolerably aggravating. Atobe can’t stand him. It’s different than his distaste for others - Fuji feels more. Personal. Being near him makes his skin crawl. Fuji sits next to him, uninvited, unheard of, but Atobe knows what it is. A challenge - he glares at Fuji, wearing the full Seigaku uniform, seemingly unaffected by the heat that is causing sweat to bead on his brow and Jirou’s head to leave his uniform stuck against his warm skin where it lays against him. “Tezuka enjoys playing against counter players,” Fuji says after settling beside him, smile wide but unfriendly.

“Are you bragging?” Atobe askes, tone cold. He casts a glance over at him, but his comment made Fuji’s smile disappear instantly, and now his eyes are just as sharp as Atobe’s just were during the match. They’re watching the same person.

Kabaji and Kaidoh shake hands, and are beginning the match. Hiyoshi is playing the part of the ref, and he already looks bored with his head leaning against a closed fist.

With a sigh, Atobe readjusts, crossing his legs, losing the connection of the back of Jirou’s head on his thigh for a moment before it replaces itself. It’s too hot for this, but Atobe allows it. Fuji doesn’t even react. “No need to get all depressed, Fuji. It was a joke.”

“He won’t play a match with me,” Fuji says, bringing a long fingered hand to his lips, where he taps absently as he stares down the length of Hyoutei’s bleachers. Tezuka takes a towel from Oishi, who is babbling incessantly at him already. _Annoying_ , is what Atobe thinks. Fuji continues. “So it was fun to see him play a counter player, like me.” A pause. “It’s always fun to see him play.”

The real meaning behind _fun_ is not lost on Atobe, who snorts, undignified. “Of course. I’ve only played him once before too, you know.”

“I know,” Fuji says. It’s dangerous. Atobe can’t help but look at Fuji, who isn’t looking at him. Still at Tezuka, who speaks to Inui about Kaidoh, who is struggling against Kabaji’s imitation of the Snake Shot. “I was there, when you played. It was good. Except for when you hurt him.” He finally cuts his gaze away, staring at Atobe with an uncertain expression.

Atobe feels his face flush at the memory, turns away. Jirou mumbles something in his sleep, and Atobe wrings his fingers through the curls, and Fuji notices, but is endlessly polite enough to say nothing, despite wanting to. Atobe can tell, and is endlessly bothered by it.

“He’s frustrating,” Fuji agrees. Atobe doesn’t have to say it, which annoys him. Another criminal point of Seigaku’s genius - he’s always one step ahead in Atobe’s thoughts, every time they spoke. Atobe, unwilling to let his mind be read by the other boy, turned away with a huff. Kabaji was losing now, and Kaidoh was hissing, and Tezuka was staring at Ryouma as the boy talked to Tezuka, rudely, from beneath the brim of his baseball hat, not looking at him properly. And yet, Tezuka looks back.

And grants him the ghost of a smile as the brat walks away.

Atobe’s chest squeezes bitterly.

Fuji lets out a low hum beside him, annoyingly knowing smile back on his face. “Looks like Kabaji will win this match. Inui will up his training.”

“Of course he will,” Atobe says, voice hoarser than he’d prefer it to be. “Hyoutei is full of winners.”

There is a moment of tension as they sit, bristling, an unvoiced argument occurring that neither is willing to vocalize. Another hum, and Fuji rises from the bleachers. For one fleeting, excruciating moment, Tezuka’s gaze flickers to them, and Atobe feels dizzy.

“Fuji.” Tezuka’s voice carries up the bleachers, echoing off the metal grating, bouncing in Atobe’s head. His eyes are on Atobe, for the smallest of moments, and Atobe feels like the day has grown hotter, the afternoon beating slightly stronger onto him. It’s excrutiating. “And Atobe. You’re up next, aren’t you?”

Kabaji hits the match point. It’s 7-6. Kaidoh storms off, and Kabaji bows anyway.

“Be right there,” Fuji says pleasantly, and he looks down at Atobe, eyes glittering, and Atobe sees himself in their reflection. Fuji reaches down to him. An offer of camaraderie, if it was anyone else. “I believe I’m your opponent today, Atobe.”

Jirou wakes up at the news of an Atobe match, bounds away before they can even move, and Atobe looks at the hand Fuji has outstretched - suspicious, fake, and most of all, _rival._

But different.

“Of course,” Atobe says, grasping Fuji’s hand and pulling himself up with it, staring down at him when they come chest to chest. He smirks. Tezuka is still watching them, and Fuji knows too, and each of their grips tighten ever so slightly, the sweat of their palms sticky and all too warm. “Prepare to lose.”

Fuji’s expression is sharp. “I’d expect nothing else, Atobe.”

 


End file.
